Sunday, a man approached

not the one, he said, not the one

not the one nursing a glass

in the low-lit bar

not the one cuffing kids

like they were flies

not the one slamming the door

so hard the woman inside

shook like a peanut in its shell,

not the one driving,

wild as a fever dream,

doing his best to gift-wrap a tree

with metal.

Not your bones, he said

not your ten-day healing

not your legs, year-long in therapy

not your ears, tuned out to the drone

of debt collectors and their gospel of owing

not your voice, trying to explain your mind

to the cops in the back room of the precinct.

You're lucky, he said

stranger luck

mirrorless luck

no limp in your gait

no tremor in your thought

no throat so dry

your feet go bar-hopping without consulting the head

Who are you, anyhow

he asked, and why am I talking to you

then brushed past

like I was vapor or verdict like

and whatever I was had it made

or had it coming.